


all the poor people she's forsaken

by digits_of_phi



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Eberron (Setting), F/F, Khorvaire (Eberron), Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27223075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digits_of_phi/pseuds/digits_of_phi
Summary: There are people after me. I’m well aware that there are people after me, that I can’t let my guard down for a moment, not even in the small room with a warded and bolted door where I catch a handful of uneasy hours of sleep every few days. But I slip for a moment, and everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.(aka: Lovelace Morrigan and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Timeskip)
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 2





	all the poor people she's forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> (title from Outrunning Karma by Alec Benjamin)  
> For context! This takes place in the world of Eberron. Lovelace Morrigan, an aasimar divination wizard, was in the city of Metrol when it was consumed by a magical fog that killed nearly everyone inside. She escaped the city with the help of the other PCs, and four years passed before the next session. During that time, Lovelace went off the deep end searching for her missing best friend (a tiefling named Volta Keth), her missing girlfriend (a half-orc named Kestrel Thorn), and answers for what happened to Metrol. In her search for answers, Lovelace fell in with some unsavory people and did some bad things, which led to the worst reunion possible with one of her missing loved ones.

Naturally, it’s a momentary lapse of judgement that ends up being my undoing.

I’m sitting at my desk. My back is turned to the window. Fatigue weighs on me like a hand around my throat and I allow myself one self-indulgent moment to wallow in that misery. It’s odd, I reflect momentarily, that I don’t allow myself to feel safe in my erstwhile home. I have no precedent for this and despite the past few years full of paranoia and fury and exhaustion, I still can’t bring myself to get used to this sort of life.

There are people after me. I’m well aware that there are people after me, that I can’t let my guard down for a moment, not even in the small room with a warded and bolted door where I catch a handful of uneasy hours of sleep every few days. But I slip for a moment, and everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.

The spell strikes me from behind, a needle of insidious enchantment driving in the vulnerable place at the base of my neck. By the time I gather my energy to fight against it, the spell has taken hold, ice-cold arcane needles multiplying and pinning me in place, paralyzed and gaping as my body hunches over my notes, the motion completely involuntary, and freezes in place.

_Hold Person_ . I’m a _fucking_ idiot.

I can’t move. It’s a struggle, painful like my organs are being shredded, to gather enough coherence to think, to recover the exhausted scraps of my arcane ability to strain against the barriers of paralysis wound around me. Distantly, though, I can hear the door creak open, and the panic sets in.

Light spills into the room as the door opens, and the small, sputtering flames of my handful of half-melted candles flicker. There’s a shadow in the doorway, but with my head fixed forward, I can only see the movement of a dark silhouette in my peripheral vision. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Good evening.” The silhouette speaks, with an irony that makes me seethe, paralyzed, with anger in their calm, cool voice, slightly muffled as if by a mask or helmet. “On the authority of House Tharashk, you are under arrest on suspicion of smuggling and illegal activity in affiliation with the Daask. Please state your name.”

Great. A _fucking_ Inquisitive. They’ve been easy to dodge so far, but I should’ve known that my luck would run out eventually. If I were in a better mood, I would be flattered at having a relatively powerful caster sent after me, as much as I resent being associated with the fucking Daask.

I’m about to start composing a firmly worded rant about being ordered to state my name right after this asshole cast Hold fucking Person on me, but the spell’s grip loosens and some of the needles withdraw from my throat. I can’t move any more than I could before, but from my formerly paralyzed throat, I manage a weak but heartfelt, “Fuck you.”

“Noted,” the Inquisitive replies dryly, still no more than a silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the light from the street. “Please state your name, or I will compel you to speak.”

I manage a laugh, choked and mirthless, while my mind races. I have my speech back, so I can cast a verbal spell— but fuck, they’ve no doubt already thought of that. If I can blind them for long enough to force them to lose concentration, distract them long enough to get the chance— “Some Inquisitive you are. You got the charges wrong and you don’t even know my fucking name.”

“State your name.” They sound less bored. I seem to have struck a nerve. I’d bet that they’re not one of the Dragonmarked house members, that they’re one of their hirelings stuck doing their dirty work and hunting through the slums for an idiot who got sloppy with her extracurricular research.

It’s funny, that thought, that a fucking _hireling_ caught me off guard and enchanted me into paralysis. Embarrassing, really. The thought is air to the flames of resentment and anger in my chest and with another concentrated _shove_ against the restraints of the spell—

The Inquisitive starts forward, but the paralysis breaks before they can do anything. I shove myself out of the chair, drawing my wand from my sleeve and finally looking at the person in my room with clear eyes. I was right— they’re wearing a mask that conceals their face and a black uniform with the insignia of House Tharashk, nowhere near as ornate as garb worn by fully Marked members. Even as they approach, their alarm at the breaking of their spell visible, their advance is measured, almost military. They have long, dark hair in a braided bun at the back of their head and a slim black wand in one hand and there’s something very important about the way they’re moving, something I’m missing, but I have more pressing priorities than introspection.

The Inquisitive levels another spell at me; I don’t recognize it this time, but I just barely manage to bat it aside with a Counterspell. _Fuck_ , they’re fast. “I think I’m a little above your pay grade, friend,” I snap, backing up into one of the small, flickering circles of candlelight.

“You—” The Inquisitive begins, and their voice breaks off. Their gloved hand, still clutching their wand, falls to their side.

For the space of a heartbeat, the two of us both freeze, me captivated in a rare moment of uncertainty and the Inquisitive… staring at me behind their mask. I should be able to take advantage of this hesitation, should be casting a spell, doing something, but for the moment, I’m as paralyzed as the Inquisitive.

They move first. I tense as they reach up with their free hand, but they don’t reach for a weapon, don’t cast a spell, don’t press their advantage. Instead, their fingers hook under the bottom of their mask and pull it away.

I hesitate again, stunned into silence _again_ , because I recognize the face immediately. It’s been three years, and she’s thinner than I remember, paler and worn with a scar across her right cheek, but I’ve been seeing this face in dreams and nightmares alike since the day she went missing. Dark green skin, as smooth and soft as I remember, and blazing dark eyes in a round, soft face, perfectly manicured tusks visible as her lips part in shock, but it’s the look on her face that I know immediately, would know anywhere.

It’s Kestrel.

Her eyes are wide, glittering in the candlelight, with the same disbelief that’s making my heart slam against my sternum. This isn’t real. This _can’t_ be real. 

“Lovelace?” she— it isn’t her, it _can’t_ be her— whispers. The mask falls to the floor.

A part of me that I’d thought died four years ago wants to run to her, to throw myself into her arms, to kiss her and let the lonely, awful years melt away. But the last time I tried to hug someone, it turned out to be a demon wearing my best friend’s skin and I’m not that stupid anymore.

I raise my hand— it isn’t shaking, my weakness isn’t visible— and the spell rises to my hand as the familiar, comforting fury bubbles up in my veins. The Dispel Magic that I cast at this imposter is fucking _impregnable_ , and they stagger backward under the force of it, one hand rising to their eyes to block the blinding golden light from my wand. An eye blinks open on the back of my left hand and I shove my hand into my pocket.

Kestrel— the _person_ lowers the hand and the face still belongs to Kestrel, still older, still worn, tears streaming down their face. “Lovelace, it’s… it’s me, I promise—”

“Fuck off,” I manage, and cast Detect Thoughts.

I’ve avoided this spell for years, ever since using it on that terrible day on that creepy spy asshole, and it feels just as awful now, like plunging my hands into someone’s guts. But I have to know what this is, and there’s…

There’s nothing in this person’s mind to indicate a lie. There is shock, genuine and overwhelming, and the shadow of a heavy, terrible grief that I recognize like a reflection, and it’s not a lie and it’s familiar and it’s _her_. All of it is true.

“Kestrel,” I manage, pulling away from their— _her_ — mind, my wand falling to my side.

“It’s me,” she says again, her hand reaching for the collar of her shirt in a nervous tic that I recognize, fuck, of _course_ I recognize it. “This isn’t… gods, Lovelace, I thought you were—”

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” I demand, voice rough, decorum in shreds, too scared to get any closer. This could still be a dream, after all, and I don’t want her to disappear yet.

“Where have _I_ — you were _there_ , Lovelace! Where the fuck have _you_ been? Did… did anyone else—”

“I-I don’t know,” I admit, and gods, it hurts more than I thought it would to tell her that, to watch the hope drain from her eyes. “I’ve been looking— gods, I’ve been looking for you, and you’re here—”

“I’m here,” she echoes, but I can see that familiar weight of grief settle over her. “I’d thought— it was stupid in hindsight, but I thought I’d find you and Volta together, at least, but…”

A laugh escapes me, mirthless and awful, and Kestrel flinches. “You’d… yeah, you’d fucking think that, wouldn’t you? Him being my best friend and all? I hate to break it to you, Kestrel, but he’s probably fucking dead. I’ve been looking for him, but the last time I saw his face, a demon was wearing it in the godsdamn fog and it tried to kill me.”

“A demon?” Kestrel echoes faintly, her eyes wide. “That’s… Lovelace, I don’t understand.”

“Me the fuck neither,” I snap. She’s alive. She’s alive and she’s here and she’s… huh. I’d almost forgotten the entirety of the past few minutes, in the shock of seeing her face for the first time in years, but she’s broken into my home. She’s wearing the crest of House Tharashk. She’s an Inquisitive, and she attacked me, and she tried to arrest me. This whole time, I thought she was fucking _dead_. I mourned her with every piece of my broken heart, even as I searched for her, desperately but losing hope every day, and all this time she’s been here. She threw in her lot with one of the fucking Houses, with the people tearing the world apart, and she’s been here, protected by them, trained by them, believing in them (and I know she believes, I read her mind), while our people were scattered to the wind, while our people rotted in the streets of Metrol. Did she even look for me? Did she think twice about me, about any of us, before throwing away everything I thought she believed in for the sake of a uniform?

Did she look for me the way I looked for her? Did she mourn me the way I mourned her? Did she miss me so much it ached like a phantom pain, like something deep inside her was torn out, the way I missed her?

I’d read her mind, seen the shadow of grief hanging over her, but I still can’t bring myself to believe it.

“Lovelace.” Kestrel takes a step forward. I take a step back. Her face twists with pain and despite everything, despite everything, I ache at the sight of it. I never wanted to hurt her. I would’ve done anything to keep her from getting hurt. I discovered my divine ancestry, exposed myself for the first time as the monster I am, to keep her from getting hurt.

Huh. Three people in the world know what I am, and one of them is an Inquisitive for House Tharashk. That’s probably bad.

“I don’t understand,” she says again, small and almost afraid and gods, _gods_ , this is awful. This is like my heart being torn out all over again, this betrayal, and I can’t even tell if she’s lying. She’s always been a better liar than me, and I’m biased, my judgement is clouded, because I desperately want this grief to be genuine, desperately want to be able to believe in her again, the way I had before, wholehearted and unflinching. “Love, what are you doing here? What’s happened to you?”

_Love_ . And _fuck_ , that one hurts. It delighted her, back then, how easily my name could be shortened into a nickname and a pet name at the same time. Hearing her call me that for the first time was like being split open. She was the only one allowed to do that to me. Not even Volta was allowed to call me that. I hadn’t thought anyone would ever call me that again. 

“What’s happened to _you_ ?” I say instead, turning away so she can’t see my face— I’m a terrible liar, and she knows my tells, knows _everything_ about me. “You sold the fuck out on me, Kes.”

She flinches, one hand rising self-consciously to the crest on her uniform. “I did what I had to,” she says, more excuse than explanation. “It’s been—”

“Difficult?” I interrupt, not even trying to hide the bitterness. She looks down. “You weren’t even there, don’t you dare try to tell me how _difficult_ it’s been for you.”

“Then you tell me.” She looks up, and there’s the steel in her eyes, there’s the fire that I once thought incapable of surrender. “This isn’t you, Lovelace. Whatever this is that you’re mixed up in, it isn’t you.”

“What the fuck would you know about that?”

“Because I know you! I know you’re better than this, and I know you’ve gotten in too deep trying to… trying to solve a problem or fix the world or whatever martyrdom you’re attempting this time. You’re not a criminal, Lovelace. You’re not a _thief_.”

I breathe. Breathe. “What problem do you think I’m trying to solve, then, if you know me so fucking well?”

Her eyes soften, and resentment coils hot and bitter in my stomach. “You can’t fix Cyre by yourself.”

“Yes I fucking can, but I shouldn’t have to!” The words burst forth more honestly than I’d planned, and angry tears prick at my eyes. Gods, I haven’t cried in _years_ , not since the week after the Day of Mourning that I spent locked in an unfamiliar inn room, crying in bed. I turn my face away. “You weren’t there, Kestrel. You have no fucking idea what it was like.”

“I saw all the pictures. I read all the reports.”

“I was _there_ . I was… I was in the fucking _library_ , I was _studying_ , and I came out and everyone around me was dead. I saw…” My breath wheezes in my throat at the memory, but she has to understand, I have to make her understand. “I saw Sera Monmount, remember her? The human who studied scrying with us? She was lying right outside the door, she was dead but she looked like she was sleeping. Most people looked like they were sleeping, but some of them didn’t. Joa Finch, you remember? Volta’s friend, the one who always snuck into the city with us? They were on the ground rotting, like they’d been dead for _months_ , even though I saw them the night before. I was the only one alive, Kestrel. You don’t understand. You _can’t_ understand what that was like. Everyone I’d ever fucking met was dead. I thought… there was a note on my door with Volta’s name on it and I was so relieved, I thought he’d made it out, but I went to find him and it wasn’t him, Kestrel, it was some… thing, a demon disguised to look like him, and it almost fucking killed me and it probably killed Volta before it replaced him, but for years, Kestrel, for _years_ , I’ve been holding out hope that he’s alive, just like I’d been holding out hope that you made it out of Cyre before the fog came. I’ve been looking for you and mourning you at the same fucking time, and you’ve been _here_ , playing nice with House Tharashk, only bothering to find me when they ordered you to arrest me.”

“I didn’t know it was you.” Kestrel’s voice has fallen to a whisper. I can’t look at her, but I can hear that she’s in pain. If it’s even a fraction of the pain I’ve felt for the past four _fucking_ years, she deserves that much. “I swear, I’ve had a reason for everything I’ve done. I looked for you, Lovelace, and I never forgot about you. Never.”

“I don’t believe you,” I reply, and I don’t. The grief at that realization almost tears me in half.

“Let me prove it to you.” She takes another step forward. I take another step back. “Lovelace, please, whatever you’re mixed up in, I can help. I know you’re not with the Daask. I know what they’re like and I can get them away from you. House Tharashk… they’re everything we always knew they were, all of the Houses are, but they have resources and I can use them. I can help you. Please, let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” I look up at her then. My vision blurs and flickers as an eye opens on the back of my right hand, another just above my sternum, and as I look at Kestrel, pale and older and scarred but still as familiar as the lines on my palm, I can see my expression mirrored on her face. Against all odds, despite everything both of us have become, I know that neither of us are going to back down. “I’m going to fix this, Kestrel. I’m going to find out what did this to my home and my people, and I’m going to kill it. The wheels are turning. The ships have sailed. Everything is set in motion, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

Her shoulders slump as she comes to the same conclusion. “I can’t let you do this.”

“I don’t need your fucking permission,” I retort, and cast Dimension Door.

The world tilts sideways around me, but I’m used to this, I’ve had to run like this before, and I’m running as soon as my feet land on the street outside my building. I’m gone, vanished into the familiar labyrinth of the Cogs’ dark alleyways before Kestrel has time to make it out my door.


End file.
